Who Killed Harold?
by BeautifulDevil
Summary: Random one-shot about Cordell Firewalker teaming up with Samuel L. Jackson to investigate the murder of Harold Renaldo Trivette.


**This is random, I will admit, but it was fun to write. My sister gave me the idea when I told her I had terrible writer's block. The first thing that popped into her head was "Walker and Samuel L. Jackson investigate a murder together." Thus, this was born.**

Cordell Firewalker walked out of his hotel at 7:46 AM and hailed a taxi.

"73 East Walnut Street," he commanded, sitting back in his seat. The taxi smelled of faintly strawberries and cheap perfume and lingering cigarette smoke. A jazz ballad drifted back from the front seat where the driver, a middle-aged Jamaican man, was drumming his hands on the steering wheel. The music stopped suddenly, replaced by a faint static. The driver slammed his fist down on the dashboard a few times until the music returned and then slammed the breaks, sending Walker to the edge of his seat.

"How long do you think it will take to get there?" Walker asked ten minutes later as the driver came to a screeching halt once again.

"Oooh, man, you never been to New York before, have you?" the driver asked.

Walker shook his head. "This is my first trip."

"Well, this isn't no country road. I'd say we have about twenty minutes to get there. You'll get used to it, man. Where you from?"

"Texas," Walker said, pulling his hat down over his eyebrows.

"You a looong way from home, then!" the driver said gleefully, looking in the rearview mirror at Walker. "What you doing all the way up here?"

"I'm investigating a murder," Walker said.

The driver looked in the rearview mirror for a few seconds before returning his eyes to the road and, finding the road clear for a few feet, hit the gas pedal.

"You FBI or somethin?"

"No, I'm just doing a favor for a friend."

The driver laughed. "Some favor, man! I hope you catch whoever did it."

Walker fixed his steely gaze on the driver. "I will," he promised, "for as the Bible says, 'He who sinneth against his fellow man by spilling the blood sins against God, and he who kills surely must be kilt in return, for God is a vengeful God and appoints followers to carry out his judgment.' I'm a Texas Ranger. I am justice."

Walker stepped out of the taxi, planting his cowboy boots on the cool pavement and straightening his leather cowboy hat. Looking left and right, he surveyed the street. It was empty except for an old couple sitting out on a porch. Tall elm trees lined both sides, shading the street and expensive houses on either side. Walker stroked his beard as he glanced around one last time, and then turned to the taxi driver and counted out the money.

"Do you have a card?" he asked. "In case I need to contact you."

"Right here, man, but I don't want anyting to do with a murder. I don't want no trouble!"

"Don't worry, trouble doesn't want me," Walker promised him before turning and hurrying up the sidewalk. The house he stopped in front of was a red brick, two story tall giant. Walker walked past a bed of roses surrounding a pink flamingo and jogged up a set of steps. Raising the white knocker on the door, he let it fall. When no one answered, he banged again.

"Just a BLEEPING minute!" a voice shouted from inside. Walker heard something crash inside the house and, a few seconds later, the door swung open, revealing a very bedraggled and very angry Samuel L. Jackson. "Who the BLEEP is you?" he asked.

"I'm Cordell Walker, Texas Ranger," Walker explained. "Your cousin Trivette told me you needed help."

"Oh, Trivetttttte," Samuel L. Jackson said, standing up a little straighter. He tugged at his ragged collar and wiped something out of his eye. "He said you'd be showing up. I didn't think it'd be so BLEEPING early, though. Come on in."

Samuel L. Jackson pushed the door open and stepped inside. Walker followed, stepping over a broken lamp and table.

"You want a beer?" Samuel L. Jackson asked, leading the way into the kitchen.

"No, thank you," Walker said. "I don't drink on Sundays."

Samuel L. Jackson opened the fridge, revealing nothing but carefully stacked cans of Budweiser. He pulled one out and cracked it open. "You're not some BLEEPING religious nut, are you?" he asked.

Walker brushed off the insult to his religion. "The Bible says nothing against drinking in general. In fact, in John 34:14, Jesus says 'Partake of the wine, my brothers, for My Father has gifted us this as a sign of his Love, for he desires us to be happy."

Samuel L. Jackson took a long drink of the beer and then stared at walker. "I'll be BLEEPED," he said. "You sure you don't need one?"

"Alright then," Walker said, opening the fridge and taking out a can of beer. "Who am I to deny the Lord?"

They drank their beer in silence. Then Samuel L. Jackson sat down at the large, oak kitchen table. "So what did this Trivette tell you?" he asked.

Walker joined Samuel L. Jackson at the table, putting his boots up on it and crossing his feet. He fingered his Texas Ranger badge on his red flannel shirt. He tilted his hat back, revealing an American flag tattooed on his forehead.

"He said that your second-cousin, twice removed Harold Trivette turned up dead in alley three nights ago. The NYPD have no leads and have given up." Walker shook his head at the incompetence of the New York Police Department. "He asked me if I could come up and take a look around."

Samuel L. Jackson held up his beer can and saluted Walker with it. "I appreciate it, you mother BLEEPER. I don't know what we'd do without the Texas Rangers. You and Trivette are real heroes."

Walker saluted back, tears in his eyes. "Amen to that, brother," he said, draining his beer can. He stood up. "Tell me everything you know about Harold Renaldo Trivette."

"He was coming back from BLEEPING church camp," Samuel L. Jackson said, wiping a tear from his eye with the back of his hand. "He went every Thursday."

"Why was he so late coming home?" Walker asked. He flipped open a notebook with the words "God Loves You" printed on the front in flowery letters with an American flag waving in the background. "The police have the time of death at 11:59."

"It must have run late," Samuel L. Jackson said, composing himself. He leaned against the wall of the alley, which was dirty, but he didn't mind. He hadn't changed out of his dirty gray t-shirt and stained jeans. "That BLEEPING Pastor Jeff always keeps the kids late, making them memorize Bible verses and say prayers." He shook his head at the atrocity. "If you're going to arrest anyone, arrest Pastor BLEEPING Jeff first for sending them home so BLEEPING late in the first BLEEPING place!"

Walker bit back his anger at hearing a man of God so disrespected and instead turned his thoughts to the case. "We need to talk to Pastor Jeff," Walker decided. "He could very well be the last to see Harold alive, except for the killer and God."

"This is it," Walker said. He looked up at the small church, called the Church of Christ, and then down at his notebook. Above the inspirational Bible quote at the bottom was scrawled the address, "666 Jules Way." He strode up to the front door but, instead of going in, knelt on the concrete step and muttered a quick, heartfelt prayer.

"What the BLEEP are you doing now?" Samuel L. Jackson demanded, tossing another empty beer can at a bin and missing by several feet. "I thought we were questioning the Priest."

Walker sent up a quick prayer for the starving children in Scandinavia and then stood, brushing dirt from the worn knees of his Levi Cowboy Edition blue-jeans. "He's a Pastor," he corrected. "And one should never enter a house of God without first cleansing one's soul." Walker opened the doors and entered. Samuel L. Jackson followed, tracking his alley-caked shoes on the carpet and neglecting to cleanse either them or his soul.

The sanctuary of the church was small, but Walker knew that the church's size did not matter as long as the parishioners' faith was large. At the far end, kneeling before an altar, stood a man. Walker slowly made his way toward the man, pausing to pray again once he made it to the front.

"Pastor Jeff?" he asked finally, when he had finished.

"Yes, my brother. What can I do for you?"

"My name is Cordell Walker, I'm a Texas Ranger," Walker explained, pointing to his badge. "I'm investigating the murder of Harold Renaldo Trivette. Can I ask you a few questions?"

"Yes, of course," the Pastor said. He led them to a side room and asked them to sit. After he'd poured three cups of coffee, he sat down.

"I was devastated to learn about Harold," he started out quietly, brushing a few strands of blonde hair out of his face. "I dedicated today's service to him. Read his favorite Bible quotes. He was always so good at memorizing them." Pastor Jeff sniffled and delicately wiped his nose. "I am sorry. I am overcome with grief."

Walker passed Pastor Jeff a box of tissues and waited passively while Pastor Jeff composed himself. Samuel L. Jackson shifted uncomfortably in his chair and then drew a beer can out of his pocket. Opening it, he took a long drink. "So what the BLEEP happened last Thursday night?" he asked, leaning back.

Pastor Jeff stared at Samuel L. Jackson, so startled that he ceased to cry. "I'm sorry, I don't think we were introduced," he said.

"I'm Samuel L. Jackson and Harold was my BLEEPING second-cousin, twice removed. So you'd better tell us the BLEEPING reason Harold was walking home so late or I'm shoving this can up your BLEEPING BLEEP!" Samuel L. Jackson slammed the still full can on the top of the desk, splashing droplets of beer everywhere.

"Maybe you should just wait outside," Walker said after a few minutes of shocked silence. "I can talk to Pastor Jeff."

"Alright, 'cause I don't need this BLEEPING BLEEP," Samuel L. Jackson said, standing up. "See you outside, mother BLEEPER." He patted Walker on the shoulder in a friendly manner and then turned around and left the room. A few seconds later, the front door slammed. Walker turned back to Pastor Jeff.

"I'm sorry about Mr. Samuel L. Jackson," he said. "But if you could answer his question…Why _was_ Harold walking home so late?"

Pastor Jeff shook his head, looking like he was till recovering from his shock. "Bible study ended at 9:00, like it always does," he said. "Harold should have been home by 9:30."

Walker sat up straight in his chair, knowing a clue when he saw one. "So what was Harold doing between 9 and 11:59?"

"I'm afraid I don't know," Pastor Jeff said, shaking his head. "He didn't mention anything to me and he didn't seem troubled. He remembered all his Bible verses perfectly." Pastor Jeff fell into silent weeping, drawing a flowered handkerchief out of his pocket. Walker thanked him for his time and stood, joining Samuel L. Jackson on the curb.

"Harold got out of Bible study at 9:00," he said soberly. "To solve this murder, we have to fill in the missing two hours and fifty-nine minutes."

"This is point B, the Church of Christ. _This _is Point C, Harold's house. Points B and C are about one mile apart, which should have taken Harold about half an hour to walk. However, Harold never arrived at Point C. Instead, he was found at Point D, dead. Any questions?"

Samuel L. Jackson leaned over the map, studying the small circles. He traced his finger over them. "Why isn't there a Point A?" he asked finally.

Walker sighed. "Out of respect for God. He said, 'I am the Alpha and the Omega.' I started with Point B to show that we are secondary to him."

"That's beautiful, mother BLEEPER," Samuel L. Jackson whispered. "Now I'll be back, I gotta go take a BLEEP." Samuel L. Jackson turned and disappeared into the bathroom. Walker bent back over the map, studying it intently. He tapped it a few times with his Sharpie marker.

"Are you going to buy that?"

Walker looked up to see a young girl looking at him apprehensively. She wore a nametag reading: "Hello, my name is Angel."

"Oh, yeah," Walker said. He folded up the map from where it lay atop a frozen food counter and gave it to her, along with the empty Sharpie case. "And that. Oh, and one of those packages of beef jerky. Make that two."

Angel rung up his order and Walker paid with a personalized, Bank of America card depicting the American flag. "Thank you, ma'am," he said, tipping his hat. He left the store and waited on the curb for Samuel L. Jackson, who joined him a few minutes later.

"Where are we going now?" Samuel L. Jackson asked, following Walker as he ambled along the roadside. They each opened a bag of beef jerky and munched on it as they walked.

"We need to walk from the church to Harold's house and find out why he went down that alley. We need to find witnesses!" Walker slammed his fist in his hand. "With God as _my_ witness, I will find this boy's killer!" he announced, then fell silent as they walked.

"Here's that BLEEPING church again," Samuel L. Jackson said, stopping in front of it. He grabbed Walker's arm before he could kneel and pray and drug him further down the road. He looked around. "What BLEEPING way do we go now?"

Walker straightened his hat and used it to cover his American flag tattoo. Pulling out the map, he flattened it against the brick of a nearby house. "This way," he said, pointing straight ahead. "Harold normally walks straight for three blocks and then right for five. We need to know what went wrong." They started off down the relatively quiet street, hunching over every once in a while to scan for clues. It took them nearly an hour to make it the eight blocks to Harold's house. They examined every foot of the journey there. Standing in front of the off-white ranch house, Walker shook his head. "We must have missed something." When Samuel L. Jackson didn't answer, Walker turned around. He found him half a block off, kneeling in what looked like bushes.

"Come over here and look at this!" Samuel L. Jackson called excitedly, drawing angry looks from some of the inhabitants of the street. Walker hurried over and looked into the bush.

"It's a knife," Walker said, picking up the knife and examining.

"It's a Switch Spring Assisted Stiletto Butterfly Blade Knife," Samuel L. Jackson said, standing up. "And it was in the bush."

Walker handed the switchblade to Samuel L. Jackson and examined the bush for a few minutes. He emerged on the other side of the three-foot wide hedge, leaving a sizeable hole behind him.

"There's signs of a struggle!" he announced from behind the greenery. "And look!" He popped up from behind the hedge, holding a small piece of fabric. "A piece of Harold's jacket!"

"BLEEPING BLEEPING BLEEP!" Samuel L. Jackson yelled. He rammed the switchblade into his pocket and crawled through the bush after Walker. "Let's follow them!"

Walker and Samuel L. Jackson walked away from the road and down the alley, with Walker stooping down every few feet to scan the dirty concrete for clues. "Anything?" Samuel L. Jackson asked.

"More footprints. Some of them are Harold's, the rest I don't recognize. They all lead in this direction, though." Walker hurried along the alley, Samuel L. Jackson jogging behind him. At the far end, Walker paused. "Look at this," he said. He pointed at the concrete wall of the alley. Amidst the dirt and grime were splatters of blood. Examining the ground, Walker found more blood. "This can't be Harold's," Walker said. "It was too early in the night."

"What is that smell?" Samuel L. Jackson asked suddenly, waving his hand in front of his nose. He cracked a beer and sniffed it, trying to block out the smell.

"We need to stay—wait a minute." Walker glanced around, and then approached a dumpster at the end of the alley. Grabbing the edge, he pulled it open.

"Holy BLEEP!" Samuel L. Jackson yelled, jumping back. Walker covered his nose with his hand and gazed into the dumpster.

"That looks about three days old," he said finally, leaning further in.

"How the BLEEP did that get in there?"

Walker ignored him and carefully reached into the dumpster, searching the pockets of the dead body. He drew out a wallet and let the dumpster slam shut. "I think that's all we need to see."

"I NEVER wanted to see that, man!" Samuel L. Jackson said.

Walker opened up the wallet and skimmed through it. "Kevin Roll," he read, flipping the driver's license over. "18 years of age. From Brooklyn." He turned to Samuel L. Jackson. "Now we have a lead."

"BLEEP."

Walker whirled around to see a group of three young men standing at the near end of the alley. They were all in their early to mid twenties, all wearing leather jackets. The leader also wore a shocked look, but quickly recovered.

"I see you found Kevin," he said, sauntering forward toward Walker and Samuel L. Jackson.

"What happened to him?" Walker demanded.

The man grinned, showing pointed teeth. "Kevin got a little over-zealous, wanted to do things differently. I just couldn't let that happen."

Walker stepped forward. "I'm a Texas Ranger, I'm arresting for the murder of Kevin Roll and for suspicion of murder for Harold Renaldo Trivette."

"You hear that boys?" the man drawled over his shoulder to the men behind him. "The man wants to arrest us." The three men all grinned. Suddenly, the first man leapt forward, aiming a punch at Walker's face. Walker, with lightening fast reflexes, spun around and hit the man with a spinning kick to the head, making him drop like a sack of potatoes. He rolled over and then hopped up, wiping dirt from his face. Lunging at Walker, he missed by feet as Walker hopped out of the way, deftly climbed atop the dumpster, and then jumping down on the man, felling him with a flying kick.

To Walker's right, across the alley, Samuel L. Jackson was grappling with another man, who had him in a head lock and was punching him repeatedly in the face. Samuel L. Jackson jerked upward, sending his foot flying towards the other's head. The man dodged, barely, releasing Samuel L. Jackson as he stumbled back. Samuel L. Jackson lunged forward, sending his fists pummeling into the man's stomach. As the man continued to retreat, Samuel L. Jackson spun him around and sent him crashing headfirst into the brick wall of the alley, where he crumpled beside empty cans and bits of garbage.

"Two down," Walker mutter, wiping sweat from his brow. He and Samuel L. Jackson converged in the middle of the alley, standing back to back as the last man approached at a run. Samuel L. Jackson and Walker both moved at the same time, punching the man as he tried to execute a complicated martial arts move. As he staggered back, Walker roundhouse kicked him the face.

"Take that, mother BLEEPER!" Samuel L. Jackson taunted, nudging the unconscious man with his boot. Walker bent to pick up his hat and settled it firmly back on his head.

"Let's get their wallets. Then we can find out what they know."

"Evan Cooper," Samuel L. Jackson said, flipping a driver's license around in his fingers. "Born 5/23/89 in the Bronx, New York. Moved to Brooklyn in '05. Not married."

"What you want, man?" Evan Cooper asked, struggling against the ropes that held his wrists behind his back. He rocked the chair he was tied to forward and back.

"I want to know happened to Harold Renaldo Trivette!" Samuel L. Jackson yelled.

"I told you man, I don't know! I never heard of the BLEEPER!"

"You expect me to believe that?" Samuel L. Jackson raised his fist to punch the man when the door opened and Walker walked in. Samuel L. Jackson stepped back.

"Did you get it?" he asked.

Walker handed him a beer, which Samuel L. Jackson immediately opened.

"How's it going out here?" Walked asked.

"Not so good." Samuel L. Jackson looked at Walker. "You only got one BLEEPING beer?" he demanded.

"I didn't know you wanted more. And it wasn't my idea to interrogate them in the garage."

"These walls are soundproof." Samuel L. Jackson turned and wove his way to the wall of the garage where a large, metal shelf stood. He rifled through a box for several minutes before finally finding what he was looking for. He hefted it and returned to stand beside Walker in front of the restrained man.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked, holding up a yellow contraption. Nobody answered him. "I asked, do you know what the BLEEP this is?"

"No!" Cooper answered, shaking his head.

"They're called grass shears," Samuel L. Jackson said. "They're designed to cut the grass around sidewalks."

"That's what that is," Walker said. "I've been looking for one of those for ages."

"They come in handy," Samuel L. Jackson said, turning to face Walker. "Especially now that they have the cordless ones."

"Yeah, I used to use a weed eater, but it didn't work very well," Walker said.

"Yeah, those tear the BLEEP out of your grass."

"Tell me about it," Walker agreed, nodding.

Samuel L. Jackson turned back to Cooper. "You see how this works?" he asked. He pushed two buttons, causing the two blades to criss-cross back and forth. "Your BLEEPING finger is going to go in there if you don't tell me why you BLEEPING killed Harold Renaldo Trivette!"

"I didn't kill him!" Cooper yelled, trying to back away. "I don't even know him!"

"Stop. BLEEPING. Lying!"

"I'm not lying! Please, I only killed Kevin! That's it; I don't even know this Harold fellow! I swear!"

"I hope you're not too fond of your pinky finger," Samuel L. Jackson said, kneeling behind the man so he could reach his bound hands. Cooper began to struggle furiously, trying to kick his way out. Finding this impossible, he looked up to Walker, eyes shining.

"Please, man, don't let him do this! I swear, I didn't kill any Harold!"

"You should stop lying to us," Walker said. "Did you think you could get away with murder? In Romans, the Bible says, 'If thou do that which is evil, be afraid; for he is the minister of God, a revenger to execute wrath upon him that doeth evil.' We're the revengers, and it's time for you to pay in blood."

The sound of the grass shears starting up buzzed from behind the chair and Cooper began to shriek in fear, continuing to protest his innocence.

"Last chance, mother BLEEPER!" Samuel L. Jackson yelled.

Cooper's response wasn't intelligible, just indiscernible screams.

"Say goodbye to your right pinkie, then!"

"WAIT! No, wait!" Cooper stopped moving. "I'll tell you what you want to know, just stop!"

The buzz stopped and Samuel L. Jackson stood up from behind the chair. He walked around to the front and placed his hands on either side of the chair, looking straight into Evan Cooper's face.

"What happened to Harold?" he asked.

"We didn't kill him!" Cooper burst out, sobbing now. He tried to wipe his face but had forgotten that his hands were still tied. Instead, he just tried to blink back the rest of his tears. "We grabbed him off the street, but we didn't kill him! I didn't even know he was dead until I read it in the paper!"

"Samuel," Walker said, placing a hand on Samuel L. Jackson's shoulder and pulling him back. Pulling the switchblade from his pocket, he knelt behind the chair and cut Cooper's hands free. "Now," Walker said, kneeling in front of the chair. "Just tell us what happened, son. Take a deep breath."

Cooper took a few deep breaths, wiping his face. He turned his hands over in front of his face, as if shocked to see all the fingers still attached. After he had calmed himself, he began to speak again.

"Me and the guys used to hang out with Harold. He was a few years younger than us, but he was cool and we all got along. We hadn't seen much of him recently, though, not after we dropped out and Harold kept going to school and then got him some religion." Cooper swallowed. Walker took Samuel L. Jackson's beer and handed it to Cooper, who gratefully took a gulp of it. After a few seconds, he finished it and tossed it aside. "We hadn't talked to him in like a month but then we heard he was going to that church. I ain't got nothing against church, man, but I've been hearing weird stuff about that Priest."

"Pastor," Walker corrected him through gritted teeth, losing patience with the captured man as he disrespected Pastor Jeff.

"Pastor," Cooper echoed, nodding and taking another deep swig of Budweiser. "Anyway, Kevin had been saying some crazy things about the Pastor, about why he never married. I didn't believe none of it, but Kevin kept going on about it, saying Harold might be in trouble and he wanted to warn him 'bout something. So we hatched a plan to grab Harold and talk some sense into him 'cause he wouldn't talk to Kevin any other way. Said he had to shun the nonbelievers."

"Hang on a minute," Samuel L. Jackson interrupted. Walker and Cooper looked at him. "I need to run and grab a beer before I heard the rest of this. You guys want one."

"Sure," Cooper said, quickly draining the last of his can. Samuel L. Jackson nodded and then disappeared out the garage door, leaving Walker and Cooper in an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Walker said.

"You know, son, it's not too late to turn to God. He'll forgive you if you admit your sins, but if you continue to deny him then he will deny you."

"Man, you're crazy," Cooper said. "I don't need no religion."

Walker's face turned a shade of red bright enough to match the red on his American flag tattoo. Fortunately, Samuel L. Jackson reentered the garage at that exact moment, preventing Walker from acting on his righteous rage.

"Here you go," Samuel L. Jackson said, tossing a Budweiser to Cooper, who caught it deftly and cracked it open. "Now, let's hear the rest of this. If you didn't do Harold in, who did?"

Cooper shook his head. "I have no idea. After Harold left church, we grabbed him off the street so we could talk to him. We tried to get him to come talk to us, but that's when he pulled the switchblade."

"Harold had the switchblade?" Walker asked, able to put his professional dislike aside for a moment.

"I knew the boy had brains," Samuel L. Jackson said "So what'd you do, kill him when he pulled the knife?"

Cooper shook his head. "I told you, man, we didn't kill him! Kevin kicked the knife out of his hand and we drug him down the alley before anyone could notice. We tried to get him to calm down but he was pretty freaked. We got him to listen after a while, though, and Kevin said his piece, how he thought the priest might be dangerous. Harold got all high and mighty on us and was saying how he had got saved and how we should be, too. Wouldn't listen. I didn't care much one way or the other, but it got Kevin pretty angry. He started talking about how he needed to stop the priest, wanted to end him. That's when I got freaked, realized he was serious."

Cooper took a deep breath. "Kevin wanted to go get the priest, not just scare him but actually kill 'em. I wouldn't let that happen, none of us could, so we tried to stop him. I guess it got out of hand." Cooper hung his head, gripping the can with white fingers. We didn't know what to do so we dumped him in the dumpster. We ran off then, but we didn't take Harold with us. We ran all the way out of Brooklyn, thinkin' the cops were gonna catch us. But they never did. That's the last time I saw Harold, I swear."

"About what time did you leave Harold?" Walker asked, pulling out his American flag notebook again.

"I dunno, must have been around ten, ten-thirty," Cooper answered.

"Which was it, ten or ten-thirty?" Walker asked. "Think!"

"Ten-thirty, then!"

"Good." Walker scribbled something else in his notebook and then snapped it shut after reading the inspirational Bible verse at the bottom. "Now, if you didn't kill Harold, who did?"

Cooper shook his head. "Nuh uh, man, I'm not talking anymore. I don't want to be in this thing any deeper than I am now."

"You don't have much of a choice, Cooper," Samuel L. Jackson said, leaning forward and speaking up for the first time since he had returned.

Cooper just shook his head again. "I already told you all too much, I ain't giving you more."

"Do you want your BLEEPING fingers cut off?" Samuel L. Jackson roared, reaching for the grass clippers.

"I can't tell you!" Cooper yelled, clenching his fingers and hiding them behind his back. "Please, not the grass clippers! Don't you understand, I can't tell you!"

"Why not?" Samuel L. Jackson shouted, raising his beer can above his head.

"Because he'll kill me too!"

"Who will?" Walker asked.

"The priest, you idiot! The priest!"

A stunned silence followed this proclamation. Samuel L. Jackson froze with his beer can raised above his head. Walker gripped his notebook, eyes wide. The silence lasted for several minutes until it was interrupted by the sound of a lawnmower emanating from outside the garage. Samuel L. Jackson's hand fell to his side, splashing beer over the edge.

"Holy BLEEP."

"Let's go," Walker said.

"What about—" Cooper began.

"Shut up. Let's go!"

The Church of Christ loomed up over Walker and Samuel L. Jackson as they stood just outside the doorway.

"Come on, man," Samuel L. Jackson said. "We've got to go in."

Walker nodded, knelt and delivered a quick prayer, and then led the way into the church. Samuel L. Jackson followed close behind, Walker's cowboy boots clicking on the tile floor as he strode across the sanctuary.

"Ranger Walker!" Pastor Jeff approached from the far end of the room, carrying a stack of Bibles. "Can I help you?"

"I'm not sure, Pastor," Walker said, his voice troubled. "Maybe you can answer a few questions for me"

"Of course, anything I can do to help. Although, I am not sure I can keep company with Mr. Samuel L. Jackson…" The Pastor trailed off, looking troubled.

"He's with me," Walker said.

"If you wish. Please, make yourselves comfortable in my office. I need to finish distributing these Bibles. There are jelly beans on the desk, if you want some."

"Thank you, Pastor," Walker said, nodding respectfully before hurrying through a door in the back, followed by Samuel L. Jackson. They only had a few minutes to wait before Pastor Jeff appeared after them and took a seat behind the desk. He poured them each a cup of coffee and then leaned forward.

"Now, what can I do to help?"

"We have some more questions about Harold," Walker said. He pulled out his notebook and flipped it open. "You said the last time you saw Harold was at the end of Bible Study?"

Pastor Jeff nodded. "That's right. He was the last to leave. We were talking about the differences between the Gospels of Luke and John."

Walker nodded, having debated the differences himself on several occasions. "And he left alone?"

"Yes, he always walked home alone. I stayed behind to lock up the church."

"Pastor, have you ever been to Harold's house?" Walker asked with baited breath.

Pastor Jeff shook his head. "No, I rarely go to any of the student's houses. Only if they have an ill family member and wish for an in-home mass."

Walker sighed, tugging on the brim of his cowboy hat, looking like a man just sentences to execution. "But you said earlier that Harold should have been home by 9:30."

"Did I?"

"How would you know how long it took for him to get home if you had never been there?" Walker asked.

The colour drained from Pastor Jeff's face. He clenched the coffee mug, spilling a bit of it on his shirt but not even noticing the heat. "I—I—"

"Pastor Jeff, did you know a young man named Kevin Roll?"

"Kevin?" Pastor Jeff said, his face still white. "Yes, I knew a Kevin Roll once. He came to this church a few times, but he hasn't been here recently."

"What did he tell Harold, Pastor?" Walker asked, his voice rising a little. "Why was he so upset?"

Pastor Jeff began to shake his head. "I don't know. I didn't know he knew Harold."

"You're lying!" Walker said to him, slamming his fist on the table. "Now tell us the truth!"

Pastor Jeff collapsed into tears, the salty water mixing with the dark brown of his coffee. Setting the coffee aside, he drew his flowered handkerchief once more and wiped the stinging tears from his eyes. "Kevin found out my secret," he began in halting tones. "He'd just been coming a few times, but he figured me out when he discovered me listening to John Barrowman and dancing in my office. He said he couldn't come here anymore and wished to stop attending. I didn't want him to go, but he said that if I said anything to his parents, then he would tell on me. I couldn't let that happen, so I let him stop attending."

Walker frowned. "What was be blackmailing you with?" he asked, perplexed. "That you like show tunes?"

Samuel L. Jackson, forgotten until this moment, stared at Walker. "You really are from Texas, aren't you?" he asked.

"Whaa?" Walker began, before Pastor Jeff collapsed into more crying.

"I'm gay!" he exclaimed, his flowery handkerchief unable to contain the deluge of tears that now ran down his face. "That's why I'm not married! I like men!"

Walker let out a shriek and stood up. "But you are a man of God!" he yelled at the pastor. "Have you not read God's word? The Bible reads, 'Neither the sexually immoral nor male prostitutes nor homosexual offenders will inherit the kingdom of God!' One Corinthians, chapter six, versus nine through ten!"

"I know!" Pastor Jeff said, still sobbing. "I have tried to be a good Christian, but I cannot deny what I am, what I have been made to be! I cannot love a woman!"

"Oh, Lord, protect us!" Walker screamed, grabbing onto to Samuel L. Jackson's arm. "We must flee this place!"

"Not until I find out what happened to my second cousin, twice removed!" Samuel L. Jackson said, disentangling his arm from Walker's grasp and guiding him back to the seat. "I will not let Harold Renaldo Trivette's murder to unsolved."

Samuel L. Jackson sat down and Walker hesitatingly did the same, all the while trying to avoid looking at Pastor Jeff.

"Were you involved with my cousin?" Samuel L. Jackson asked.

"No." Pastor Jeff leaned forward. "I swear to you, nothing happened. I had feeling for him, yes, ever since he joined the church right after he graduated. But nothing happened."

"Then how did you know how far away he lived?" Samuel L. Jackson continued, for once not reaching for a beer.

"I walked him home a few times," Pastor Jeff said quickly, begging to be believed. "He didn't have anyone to walk home with and I was worried about him. But that was it. I was not taking advantage of him."

Walker made a few mumbling sounds and the two other men looked over at him. He was flipping through a small bible that he had sewn into the lining of his jacket. After a few minutes of this, he looked up.

"But Harold found out that you where…" he faded out. "Kevin told him."

Pastor Jeff nodded sadly. Samuel L. Jackson pulled a Budweiser out of his pocket. "I'm BLEEPING glad you're asking the questions again, Cordell," he said. "I was getting tired of all that talking."

Pastor Jeff looked sadly at Samuel L. Jackson and continued to talk. "He came back to the church just as I was leaving, at a little after ten-thirty. He was distressed, said he had spoken with Kevin and been told things about me. He wanted me to say they were not true." Tears worked their way out of Pastor Jeff's eyes. "I could not lie to him, could not deceive him. I told him the truth and professed my love for him."

Walker made a gagging noise but managed to keep silent.

"He rejected me."

Walker looked up sharply. "And you killed him for it."

"No!" Pastor Jeff raised his hands in protest. "I did not kill him! I love him dearly, I could not kill him."

"Then who did?" Walker shouted.

"I do not know! I just know I did not do it!"

"You are in the house of the Lord, Pastor!" Walker told him. "He knows if you lie!"

"Forgive me!" Pastor Jeff exclaimed, falling forward onto the desk, sending the coffee flying forward. Samuel L. Jackson, forgotten before that, sprang backward with a well-executed leap and equally elegant curse. Walker jumped back as well, more from horror than to escape the coffee. "I did not mean to do it!"

"You BLEEPING killed him?" Samuel L. Jackson demanded, his face a twisted mask of shock.

"He rejected me! I could not have him, so I swore no one would!" Pastor Jeff collapsed in a sobbing mass beneath the desk, leaving Samuel L. Jackson and Walker to stare at the chair he had just vacated. Walker put his hand on Samuel L. Jackson's shoulder.

"Come on," he said. "Let's go have a beer and calm down."

"You sure you won't stay any longer?"

"I'm sure. Alex is waiting for me and I have a job to do back in Texas."

"Alright." Samuel L. Jackson nodded his acceptance. "I sure appreciate your help. I couldn't have born knowing that Harold's killer was still out there, free."

"You don't have to worry now," Walker promised. "He's in the police's hands."

"What do you think he'll get?"

"Probably life, maybe the death penalty." Walker shrugged. "Whatever it is, it'll be justice." Walker turned to look at the waiting cab. "I have to go."

"Thanks again," Samuel L. Jackson said. "If you ever need help, you know where to come."

Walker nodded and turned to go, but Samuel L. Jackson grabbed him and pulled him into a hug.

"God bless you, you mother BLEEPER," he whispered before letting Walker go.

"God be with you, too," Walker answered sincerely. He turned and got into the waiting cab, tipping his hat to Samuel L. Jackson as he drove away.

"Hey, maaaan," the driver said. Walker looked up and nodded. "I didn't think I'd be seein' you again. How'd your murder investigation go?" The man cackled, as if the idea of investigating a murder was the funniest joke he had heard all day.

Walker leaned back in his seat and inhaled the familiar smell of strawberries, cheap perfume, and cigarette smoke. He thought back over the past day, then raised a hand and straightened his leather cowboy hat. "It went alright," he said quietly. "It went alright."


End file.
